


We'll die with our hands unbound

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF
Genre: (although Emre is gone but I refuse to believe it), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendship, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Male Friendship, Master/Slave, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Sexual Slavery, Pseudo-History, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 01:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: Emre visits the slave market with his friend Mo, with no intentions of buying anything. But then he sees this handsome, blond slave being auctioned, and the man bidding for him is known to be the cruelest master in the whole town. Emre, against his better judgment and Mo’s warnings, decides to save the boy.





	We'll die with our hands unbound

**Author's Note:**

> The setting of this fic is pseudo-historical and very loosely based on the Ottoman Empire, but don’t look for any historical accuracy, I was letting my imagination run wild, so just stating this because I don’t want to offend anyone.
> 
> Again, many thanks to the fabulous @prompt_fills for keeping me going and providing me with the necessary feedback and support, and also keeping my dark side in check. So, if nobody dies or is permanently hurt in this fic, it's thanks to her.
> 
> There is also a sequel to this fic: [All I need to be free](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16001300).

Since they left Emre’s mansion, they have barely spoken.

Like all of the friendships made in war, no matter how fond of each other they were, sometimes their conversation would dry out. These were the moments they realized that they actually had nothing in common, nothing but memories, most of them not pleasant. They were from different countries, had no common friends, no common interests (with Mo being an admirer of nature with a penchant for books, and Emre being a passionate horse rider with an interest in weapons) and different upbringing. But there was still something that made them close to each other, and the moments of awkward silence would always pass.

Luckily, showing Mo around the capital gives Emre plenty of things to talk about, and Mo in return can compare to his own country, which Emre has yet to visit.

“I don’t know why out of everything, you want to see the slave market,” Emre says as they walk towards the marketplace.

“We don’t have it in my country,” Mo says simply.

“What, you don’t have slaves over there?” Emre raises his brows.

“Of course we do,” Mo chuckles. “I meant the markets. It’s not done like that. You buy directly from the sellers.”

“No bidding?”

“No. I guess we’re not picky. We keep slaves for work, not…”

Emre knows what Mo wanted to say. _Fun_. For some of his compatriots, slaves are indeed just a pastime, they try to beat each other to the most expensive one, the strongest one, the prettiest one. It’s a game with rules, a form of entertainment.

There are maybe more people running the market than those actually being sold there. One of them greets them at the entrance, bowing deeply while discreetly checking out Mo’s exotic attire. Emre nods to him when he leads them to their places. Of course they aren’t important enough to sit in the front rows, but Emre still notices that the man designated them a place a bit better than Emre would get if he were alone. Mo’s presence definitely made up for the lack of wealth on Emre’s part, whether the sellers hope Mo will buy from them, or they simply want to show off and hope for the word of their hospitality and quality goods to reach Mo’s country as well. They sit underneath the white canopy shielding the buyers from the merciless sun. One of the slaves running around and catering to the potential customers’ needs offers them tea and some sweets. Emre almost chuckles. He never gets sweets when he comes alone. Sometimes he doesn’t even get the tea. His father’s name pays for nothing anymore, and his annuity barely allows him to keep up the mansion and pay the few servants he has.

Mo watches everything with certain curiosity. Emre’s country fascinates him in a way, maybe even scares him a little. It’s the strange hospitality which makes everyone feel welcome, safe and appreciated, but underneath it all, everything is well calculated and everything has its price.

“Do you ever buy here?” Mo asks.

“As you said, it’s more fun than it’s actual business,” Emre shrugs. “Coming here is more of a social requirement than necessity. And I can’t really afford buying slaves now.”

The voices around them get louder as more people arrive, and then they ultimately rise in excitement.

“Oh no,” Emre sighs.

The man passing through the gate is the last person he wished to see today. Ziya Kartal is one of the wealthiest people in the capital, and a regular customer of the market. He arrives accompanied by his own slaves, some fanning him with large feather fans, others just waiting patiently for any whim that could pass through his mind. If Emre and Mo were given refreshments, his canopy looks like it’s ready for a damn feast. Actually, the fat figure of Ziya Kartal speaks of his interest in food, which is almost as big as his interest in the slave trade.

It’s clear that the sellers were waiting for him to arrive because the auction starts right after he takes a seat and greets his friends. It’s no wonder. He spends so much on the slaves that he could probably keep the market alive by himself. One of his slaves pours him wine from the prepared carafe and Ziya raises his cup to give a sign that he is ready.

They bring the first slave to the stage, a rather pitiful creature that had, without a doubt, been previously owned. Resold slaves usually don’t make the seller that much money, but on the contrary, they sell quickly as they are relatively cheap and don’t need training. The sellers prefer to sell those first and only then get to their best ones. There is nothing interesting about the first part of the auction, and whoever is here simply to be here, or intends to engage in the real game, uses this time to talk to their acquaintances or enjoy the refreshments. Emre has seen this so many times it has no appeal for him.

It’s only when they bring another slave to the stage that he inadvertently leans forward as if to see him better. He must be around Emre’s age. He’s tall, blonde and blue-eyed, an extremely exotic look here. His cheeks and nose are slightly burned by the sun, but that seems to be his only flaw. The excited murmuring from the stands only confirms it. It’s not very often they see slaves like this being auctioned. Emre wonders where they got hold of this boy. Nevertheless, the seller knows very well what a gem he is selling, and everyone in the stands knows that the one leaving with this one will be the luckiest one today.

Emre’s eyes slide down to his bound wrists. Even from the distance, he notices the red bruises around them and he suddenly gets uneasy. Now that is also something unseen around here. The chains are more for decoration than they are meant to actually restrain someone, as the slaves would not try to escape with their owners’ guards around. 

“Well, well, Ziya. Isn’t that something for you?” one of the men in the first row says, apparently noticing the same thing.

The man laughs, lowering the cup of wine, certainly not his first one. “Oh, it’s tempting me, it is,” he says.

“You like a good challenge, don’t you?” his friend teases him.

Ziya Kartal snorts and turns to him. “What’s challenging here? Three days and he’ll be a tame kitten, I assure you.”

Judging by his face, the boy is blissfully unaware of what is being said around him. He stares right in front of him, but Emre isn’t sure if he actually sees anything. He seems to be focusing on some invisible spot.

“The starting price is one hundred and fifty!” the auctioneer announces.

Ziya Kartal just smirks, as though it is below him to bid at this point. He lets an overexcited man from the row above Emre and Mo bid and reaches for a piece of roasted lamb.

“Two hundred!” someone in the lower rows shouts.

The auctioneer nods. “Two hundred, very…”

“Two hundred and fifty!” someone else calls before he can even finish his sentence.

Ziya Kartal continues to chew on his meat.

“We have two hundred and fifty, will anyone pay three hundred?”

Ziya Kartal raises his hand lazily, as his mouth is full. Emre takes a sharp breath.

“Three hundred, will anyone…”

The first and second bidders have seemingly given up. Three hundred is too expensive for a whim, well, for everyone’s but Ziya’s whim.

“Three hundred and fifty!” the third bidder calls.

Emre doesn’t know the man, but he seems like he is very interested in the slave. Three hundred and fifty is usually the final price paid for a good, trained slave.

Ziya Kartal’s patience is apparently wearing thin, as he’s done eating and has nothing else to kill time with. “Four hundred and fifty, now we are talking, aren’t we?” he shouts in the direction of his rival.

The man lowers his eyes. Ziya’s grin widens. “I’ll show him how we train our slaves here,” he tells his friends. “Am I not the best at it?”

“Best in the capital,” one of his friends agrees.

“Best in the whole country!” Ziya corrects him, splashing a bit of wine on his robes.

“Four hundred and fifty,” the auctioneer calls, delight written all over his face. He gets provisions from each slave sold at the auctions conducted by him, so whenever the price rises, his mood improves. “It’s four hundred and fifty from the esteemed Ziya Kartal, will…”

“Five hundred!” Emre shouts.

Mo turns to him in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Bidding,” Emre growls.

“Why?” Mo frowns. “You said…”

“You don’t understand,” Emre whispers. “You don’t know Ziya Kartal, but I do. He doesn’t treat his slaves like things, he treats them much worse. Not a lot of them survive longer than a few weeks. He’s known throughout the city for this. He buys for fun.”

“And?” Mo prompts him.

Emre knows that Mo’s right. Emre has watched Ziya Kartal buy many slaves, and although he maybe felt sorry for them here, he didn’t spare them another thought once the market was over. He doesn’t know why he cares now, but he does. Maybe because before, he thought the slaves Ziya Kartal bought had at least some chance of survival, but he somehow senses that this boy wouldn’t be a tame kitten in three days. He would be dead.

“Five hundred and fifty!” Ziya says, annoyance seeping from his voice.

“Six hundred,” Emre calls, not even waiting for the auctioneer.

Ziya Kartal actually turns around to look at Emre, narrowing his eyes like he’s asking who the hell Emre is, or who _does he think_ he is.

“Seven hundred,” he says then and downs the rest of the wine in his cup.

“Eight hundred,” Emre says.

“Emre!” Mo grabs his arm. “Do you even _have_ eight hundred?”

“No.”

Mo just rolls his eyes.

Ziya Kartal stands up. The rest of the bidders, now mere spectators, shuffle in their seats, looking for the best angle to watch the drama unfolding. But Emre sees none of it, because something else catches his attention. For the first time, the slave lifts up his blue eyes and focuses them on him, finding him in the crowd unmistakably, guided only by the sound of Emre’s voice.

“Eight hundred and fifty,” Ziya says, folding his arms. He’s not fighting for the slave anymore, he’s fighting for his honor, if it can be called that. “Don’t play with me, boy.”

“Nine hundred,” Emre says, seemingly unfazed, but his heart is racing now.

“Emre! Emre, stop it!” Mo hisses.

Emre can barely hear him. His eyes are locked with blue ones, and he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

“Nine hundred and fifty,” Ziya says, but he sounds rather puzzled now.

Mo has apparently given up on trying to talk some sense into Emre. Emre feels like his body is desperately trying to save him, as his mind has apparently been lost for good. His legs feel numb and his insides are in one big knot. This is the last chance to back out of this with at least some dignity.

Ziya Kartal flashes him a winning smile and turns back to the stage. The slave lowers his eyes again, and it looks like something in him has just went out. 

“One thousand.” Emre would swear on his life that he didn’t want to say it.

The marketplace gets quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.

“One thousand,” the auctioneer calls, his voice cracking from being overjoyed. “Will anyone offer more than one thousand?”

But Emre knows that nobody will. One thousand is too much. Too much even for Ziya Kartal, and that means something.

“This slave is sold for one thousand coins… to the esteemed… eh…” the auctioneer realizes too late that he has no idea who Emre is.

“Emre Can,” Emre says, glaring at everyone around.

If he’s going down, then at least he will be remembered.

He makes his way down the stairs, feeling all the eyes on him. People who know him must think he’s probably come to some money recently. People who don’t know him must be wondering who he is. He bets nobody fathoms that he simply bluffed.

The auctioneer bows deeply to him, probably already feeling the coins in his pocket, and leads him to the seller, a foreigner Emre has never seen before. He looks delighted as well, at the prospect of one thousand coins of gross profit.

Emre signs a due bill, and he thinks that this is how selling one’s soul to the devil must feel. In return, the seller gives him a small key and hands him the end of the rope attached to the collar. That’s it.

He now owns a slave he doesn’t really need nor want.

Mo is waiting for him near the gate. He doesn’t say nor do anything, but his eyes are judging Emre _hard_. He feels like so do his new slave’s eyes, he feels them burning a hole in the back of his skull, except when Emre turns to him, his eyes are lowered again. Emre has to tug on the rope, and he has never hated himself more than he does in that moment.

When they arrive home, Emre finally starts to comprehend the gravity of the situation. Mainly when he sees the shocked faces of his few servants, who must be either questioning his sanity, or worrying that his financial situation is forcing him to acquire slaves and he’s about to kick them all out.

“Bring some water,” he tells one of the stunned servants.

The servant nods and hurries out of the hall. Emre takes off his coat and looks at his newly acquired possession.

“What is your name?” he asks.

The slave looks at him in surprise as he hears his own language. Emre smiles faintly. He has been many places, wars and curiosity led him far away to finally lead him back home again. And unlike some of his comrades, he preferred not to stay completely ignorant of foreign customs and languages.

“Loris,” the boy says, almost like he’s challenging him. “What is yours?”

Now it’s Emre who blinks in surprise. His name has already been said many times that day, maybe more than he would like. Then he realizes that Loris probably didn’t recognize it among the other words that must sound like some strange gibberish to him.

“Emre Can,” Emre says and nods towards Mo. “And this is Mohamed Salah, my friend.”

Mo looks like he wants to laugh, because Emre must be the worst slave master he has ever seen in his life, but he nods shortly, apparently amused. Emre can imagine that had Loris asked Ziya Kartal his name, he would now be spitting blood. In the best case.

But Emre is not Ziya Kartal, nor is he a slave master, because he pays all of his servants and during his times in the army, he always preferred to kill the enemies to capturing them. Just because he lives by doing to others what he would want them to do to him. And he would always prefer death to slavery.

And the more Emre looks at Loris, the more mad he is at the whole world, and himself.

On a sudden impulse, he pulls out the small key and steps behind Loris. Loris stands still, but Emre can see his tense muscles and understands how much self-control this costs him.

“What are you doing?” Mo asks, probably already questioning Emre’s mental health even more than before.

“He’s not a dog,” Emre says simply and unlocks the collar. He has to push Loris’ hair out of the way in the process, and for a moment he thinks the boy will turn around and strangle him using the chains still binding his wrists, but then Loris lets out the breath he was holding and just lets him take the collar off.

Mo raises his brows and sits on the divan, watching them, like he is simply curious about how this is all going to end. Emre wishes he knew.

Emre takes the jug with water that the servant has brought, and hands it to Loris. He drinks half of it, then pours the rest over his head, the water splashing all over the terra-cotta floor. Emre prefers not to comment on it. Mainly because Loris looks like he didn’t do it to spite him, but simply because he wasn’t made for this kind of weather and has been visibly suffering in the sun and heat.

Only then Emre turns around to see that the servant is standing on the doorstep again.

“What is it?” he asks.

The servant bows to Emre and shoots one mistrustful look at Loris, almost like he’s making sure that at least his hands are still bound, so he will not kill them all.

“You have a visit,” he says.

Emre groans internally. “Who?”

“The esteemed Ziya Kartal.”

Now Emre groans out loud. Mo laughs shortly. “Well, this is getting really interesting,” he says. “When you invited me, my friend, I hoped I would see something unforgettable, but not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this.”

“See him in,” Emre sighs and puts on his coat again to look more presentable.

Ziya Kartal walks in, unlike in the morning only accompanied by one slave that is carrying the feather fan.

“Thank you for receiving me, Emre Can,” he says, shooting one lustful look at Loris, and a mistrustful one at Mo.

“To what do I owe the honor, Ziya Kartal?” Emre asks.

“I came to make you an offer,” Ziya says.

“What offer?”

Ziya Kartal sits on the divan with a loud huff. “I asked around the city, you know. I asked who Emre Can was, and to my surprise, I found out he was a nobody.”

Emre takes a deep breath. “If you came here only to insult me…”

“No. I came to save you,” Ziya says with an indulgent smile. “We both know you don’t have one thousand coins. You won’t be able to pay the price.”

Emre just continues to look at him.

“I understand why you did it. You are young, and full of ideals, full of desires. I used to be like you when I was your age. I wanted to have things, I wanted to be somebody, and I thought that all I needed to do was to lose my fear. But let me tell you, Emre Can, the world doesn’t work this way.”

“What offer do you have for me?” Emre asks coldly, not liking his patronizing tone a single bit.

“Sell me the slave for six hundred coins,” Ziya says. “The four hundred that will be missing, you will likely find somewhere, and everyone will be happy.”

Emre shakes his head. “Thank you for your offer, Ziya Kartal,” he says. “But I have to refuse.”

The older man smiles like he expected nothing else. Emre has got the feeling that underneath all of his grudges, Ziya actually likes him in his own way. Perhaps Emre really reminds him of his youth.

“I’ll be generous, Emre Can. I’ll give you seven hundred.”

Emre doesn’t respond. He just thinks about how Allah is trying to save him with all possible means today, and how stubbornly he refuses to be saved.

In that moment, Loris moves, ever so slightly, but the quiet clinking of the chains brings Emre back to reality.

“You don’t understand, Ziya Kartal,” he says quietly. “The slave is not for sale anymore.”

Ziya Kartal gets up, surprisingly swiftly for a man of his age and figure. “This whim will cost you more than you can imagine, Emre Can,” he says. “When you find yourself crawling in the mud, don’t say I didn’t try to save you.”

“I certainly won’t.”

Emre watches the man walk out, followed by his slave, frantically waving his master with the fan almost like he’s afraid Ziya will die of fuming so much. Then he falls back on the divan and covers his face with his hands.

“Emre Can,” Loris says suddenly and Emre almost startles. His name sounds strangely foreign with Loris’ accent. “What did that man want?”

“To buy you,” Emre says simply.

“From his reaction I guess you refused.”

“Yes,” Emre says. “And I will probably regret it later. When your former master wants me to pay for you. Because I didn’t want this man to own you, I offered to pay a price I can’t pay.”

Loris frowns. “So you bid for me, just so that he couldn’t buy me.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have the money?”

“Exactly.”

For a moment, Emre thinks that Loris is about to cry. But instead, he starts to laugh.

He’s beautiful like this. Emre doesn’t even mind that he’s actually laughing _at him_.

“Why?” he asks then.

“To save you.”

“But you didn’t save me, then,” Loris says softly.

Emre knows that he’s right. When the seller’s servant comes to his house for the money tonight, he will have to admit that he doesn’t have it. The servant will run to his master, who will raise hell. Emre will have to return Loris, and he will likely end up in prison himself. If he’s lucky, they won’t execute him. They will just confiscate his mansion and all possessions, and send him into exile or something.

He knew his fate was sealed when he started the game. The only thing he regrets is this. That it was for nothing. He didn’t really save Loris. Or maybe…

“Maybe I did,” he says defiantly.

He feels the pockets of his clothes until he again finds the small key he was given by the seller. Then he unlocks the chains around his wrists. Loris watches him intently as he takes them off and lets them fall to the ground. Emre jerks his head towards the open door, behind which the greenery of the open gardens can be seen.

“Go,” he says.

Loris keeps looking at him, almost as if he’s giving him the chance to change his mind, or waiting for the catch, rubbing his wrists in the process. They are grazed and sore way more than what met the eye, the cuffs having hidden most of the damage. Then he gets up and starts towards the door.

He is two steps away from it when Mo closes it and leans against it.

“That isn’t the best idea, Emre,” he says. “They’ll kill you for stealing a slave, and him for running away.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Emre asks.

“Feed him.”

Emre looks at him like he is not sure who is the one with mental problems. “What?”

“Feed him, have a smoke. Solving problems with a hot head… nothing good ever comes from it. Strategy, that’s what we need.”

Emre isn’t convinced that there is a strategy to solve his problem, but he does call the servant and tells him to bring Loris something to eat, and to prepare some tea and a _nargile,_ which will be most likely used mainly by Mo, because unlike his friend, he’s never really liked it. The servant bows to Emre and Mo, and gives a rather surprised look to Loris, noticing now _both_ the collar and chains missing.

Mo stays silent while he smokes the _nargile_ and sips on his tea. Emre can see that he is thinking, he knows his friend like this from their tent in Moldavia, or was is somewhere in Mesopotamia, he doesn’t quite remember. They spent many evenings like this, and in the end Mo would simply get up and walk over to the map on the table, move a few of the flags, and win them a battle before it even began.

Emre’s servant walks in and bows. “The man has come to collect the money for the slave,” he says, shooting a side glance at Loris, who has apparently wolfed down whatever was on his plate, and seems to be having trouble staying awake now.

“Tell him I’m coming,” Emre sighs.

The man coming to collect the money is a servant, so his status isn’t high enough to be received inside the private parts of the house. Emre braces himself for the worst and walks out, Mo silently following him.

The man is wearing the simple garments of a servant, but he is definitely not a slave, and thus probably thinks of himself a bit higher than he should. He bows to both Emre and Mo.

“My master sent me to collect the money,” he says and shows Emre the due bill.

 _That’s it_ , Emre thinks.

“I…” he starts.

“Could your master wait for his payment for… two or three days?” Mo asks.

The servant looks confused. “I… I’d have to ask, sir,” he says. “He’s leaving the city in about a week, but…”

“He will surely have his money by then,” Mo assures him. “You see, the problem is that my friend was actually bidding in my place. My funds are saved in a bank, but unfortunately it takes time to withdraw them, and my friend doesn’t have enough at the moment.”

Emre is just staring at Mo. “What are you doing?” he whispers.

“Saving you from prison,” Mo whispers back.

“If you please, I will go ask my master,” the servant says. “And come back with the answer.”

Mo nods calmly and watches him run out. Emre sits on one of the wooden chairs.

“You are not going to actually pay him, are you?” he asks.

“I am,” Mo shrugs. “There is no other way.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You are my friend,” Mo says simply. “And you saved my life once, have you forgotten?”

Emre hasn’t forgotten. It was in Moldavia, this he remembers well, he remembers the strange smell of smoke and blood and cold, because cold has its smell as well in certain circumstances. He carried Mo off the battlefield on his back, bleeding, with the combat still going on, and he didn’t even know how he got them out of there alive. When he looked at the distance from the battlefield to their camp, then, he understood it even less.

“I’ll pay you back,” he says. “When I…”

“I’m paying you back now,” Mo shakes his head.

“Buying me a slave isn’t really a good way to pay me back,” Emre smiles. “Really. I’ll give you everything back.”

Mo just shrugs. “As you wish.”

When the servant comes back, it is dark outside and Emre’s servants are lighting the lamps in the mansion.

“What is your master’s response?” Mo asks.

“My master says he is willing to wait until the day after tomorrow,” the servant says. “He says he will not wait any longer.”

Emre sees that the servant is acting as politely as possible, and probably the wording of his master was somewhat different, but it’s hard to be unpleasant to someone as nice as Mo.

“Tell your master that when I obtain the money, I shall send a messenger to him, so that he has the money as soon as possible,” Mo smiles.

“I will tell him,” the servant says. “I am also supposed to put you wise to the fact that shall anything happen with the slave, you are still required to pay.”

“Of course,” Mo nods calmly.

Emre says a quick prayer in his mind, because if Loris takes it in his head to escape, Mo will throw one thousand coins out of the window.

But when he walks back inside the private parts of the house, he realizes that escaping is right now probably the last thing on the slave’s mind.

Loris has curled up on the mat in the corner of the hall. He looks almost small and fragile, and also a bit feverish. Emre guesses that had he really let him go, Loris likely wouldn’t get very far. His sunburnt skin is radiating heat so much that Emre doesn’t even have to touch him to feel it. He bets nobody would pay a thousand coins for him now.

Emre crouches next to him and lays a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Loris opens his eyes and looks at him, but doesn’t move.

“You can’t sleep here,” Emre says.

Loris makes a face and tries to sit up, but ends up merely leaning on his elbows. “Why? Do I have to sleep next to your bed?”

Emre is positively confused. “Why should you sleep next to my bed?”

Loris shrugs, rubbing his eyes. “A slave who was being resold after her master died told me she had to sleep next to his bed. He slept with the leash in his hand and when he felt like it, he just pulled her in his bed by the collar.”

Emre takes a sharp breath. “I did not buy you for that,” he says firmly.

“What did you buy me for?”

Emre sighs. “I wish I knew.”

“You should know. Because… what you did is…” Loris bites on his lower lip like he considers his words carefully. “Very noble, but… you still own my life. You should know what you want to do with it.”

Emre nods and sits on the floor.

“If you won’t return me to my previous owner, that is,” Loris adds, and maybe Emre is imagining it, but there is a hint of fear in his voice.

“I hope to avoid that,” he says. “And as to what I want to do with your life… My problem is that I don’t even know what to do with _my_ life.”

“That sounds strange from a man like you.”

Emre just shrugs. “That’s how it is.”

They stay silent for a while. Loris starts scratching off one of the scabs on his wrist with his nails. Emre reaches for his hand. “Stop it,” he says.

It’s the first direct order he has spoken, and he can practically see the inner fight reflect on Loris’ face before he lets his hand fall to his side. 

“I’ll send a servant over with some chamomile infusion,” Emre says, and it comes out as half an apology. “Wash your wrists with it. It helps.”

He gets to his feet and beckons Loris. “Come.” For a moment he thinks of offering him his hand, but then decides not to. Loris wouldn’t take it anyway, if he has at least a little bit of pride left, which Emre is quite sure he does.

“What did you do with your life when it still belonged to you?” Emre asks as he’s leading him to the part of his mansion that is reserved to his servants.

Loris hesitates for a second or two. “I was a peasant,” he says then. “What about you?”

Emre can’t tell if this habit of asking right after answering is some strategy how to spite him, or if Loris simply does it because he always has and nobody’s beaten that habit out of him yet. And likely won’t in the near future, because he finds himself answering instead. “I was in the army,” he says.

He opens the door to an unused room. His father used to have more servants than Emre keeps now, simply because he could afford it. The room is small and simple, but clean, and the bed is definitely more comfortable than the mat in the hall.

Loris makes a step inside the room and then remains standing still, watching Emre warily. “You’re not going to… lock the door or something?”

Emre frowns. “Why? Are you afraid of anything?”

Loris turns his back to him without a word, but Emre would swear that he saw him roll his eyes.

 

*

 

The following morning, Emre meets Mo for breakfast. Not like he has much appetite, and he doesn’t quite understand where Mo’s good mood comes from. On the other hand, he’s probably never seen Mo in a bad mood.

“Would you mind borrowing me a horse?” Mo asks while helping himself to some cheese. “I need to go to the city, to solve the money issue.”

“Of course,” Emre says. “I’ll tell the servants to prepare one.”

“What about your newest servant?” Mo smiles. “You are letting him to sleep in, I see.”

Emre gives Mo an exasperated look. “As he told me he was a peasant, I really don’t think he would be the best one to serve at the table.”

Mo laughs shortly. “You better find some use for him, though. He’s a bit too expensive to be just looked at, although I do have to admit it’s not unpleasant to do so.”

Emre can literally feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. Mo finishes his tea and gets up. “Have a good day,” he says.

“I’m not sure I will,” Emre mumbles.

“Definitely better than me,” Mo grins. “If there’s something I truly can’t stand, it’s dealing with the money people.”

The morning passes unusually peacefully. Emre almost forgets about yesterday and all his trouble, submerged in the routine of replying to letters, doing the necessary accounting and sipping on tea in the meanwhile. The mansion is quiet as his servants know he doesn’t like being disturbed at that time.

After he’s done, Emre has his servants prepare some refreshments and the obligatory _nargile_ so that it’s ready when Mo comes back, because it’s the least he can do to return the favor Mo’s doing him.

Loris emerges from his room some time after noon, and he looks like he’s genuinely just woken up.

The clothes he is wearing are no different from what Emre’s servants wear, but Emre can’t help feeling that Loris looks terribly out of place like this.

It also seems like every stitch of the clothing is annoying him.

He smells of chamomile which he used to wash his grazed wrists, but Emre would swear he also washed his hair with the infusion.

“You’re quite a sleeper,” Emre notes.

“Nobody woke me up,” Loris says, and Emre can’t quite tell if it’s supposed to be an apology or a snarky response.

“No. I told them not to.”

Loris gives him a suspicious look. “Why?”

Emre shrugs. “You looked like you needed it.”

“While you don’t need me.”

Emre nods and walks over to the low table next to the divan. He pours water in a glass and looks over at Loris. Only then he notices that something’s not right. Loris hasn’t moved from the spot, watching Emre like Emre has ultimately disappointed him.

“What’s wrong?” Emre asks.

“When?” Loris asks in return. It doesn’t even surprise Emre anymore.

“When what?” he frowns.

“When are you returning me to my previous owner?”

“Why should I…”

“You just said you didn’t need me.”

“But I meant…” Emre begins and then sighs exasperatedly. He knows that even if he starts explaining, he won’t be able to convince Loris enough to stop doubting him. After all, he indeed doesn’t have the money to pay for him yet, and he can’t be sure the bank will be able to get Mo his money in time. And he indeed doesn’t need him, as he has no fields or plantations, or a general need for another servant.

Suddenly, he hears the sound of the gate opening. He pushes the glass of water in Loris’ hands and runs outside, for once grateful for this well-timed distraction.

Mo leads the horse down the garden path and gives Emre a nod and a smile. Emre feels the relief washing over him. Maybe, after all, he’s not going to prison. He makes a step forward.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something move in the bushes right next to the path and instinctively takes a step back.

A snake crawls out right onto the sunny path, and hisses at the horse. The horse neighs in terror, getting on hind legs and kicking. In one moment, Emre sees Mo flying through the air.

In the next, Loris steps between the horse and the snake, and grabs the reins.

Emre’s heart skips a beat.

He draws his _yataghan_ and swings it rather blindly. He doesn’t deem cutting the snake’s head off safe enough; in his mind making three pieces out of it is always better than just two.

He hates snakes. _Really_ hates them.

When he lifts his eyes again, Loris is holding the reins with one hand, patting the horse’s neck with the other, murmuring quietly to it. Emre is sure his horse doesn’t understand Loris’ language, but it doesn’t seem like it minds.

“Are you alright?” Emre calls at Mo.

Mo nods and gets up, rubbing his lower back, but he seems to be quite okay for how horrible the fall looked. Emre turns to Loris.

“Are you mad?” he growls. “The snake could have bitten you!”

Loris looks at him, still petting the horse absent-mindedly. “What snake?”

Emre nods towards the carcass. Loris looks at it and Emre would swear that his already pale skin gets several shades whiter. “I only saw the horse,” he whispers.

Emre suppresses a deep sigh. “I suppose I can entrust you with taking the horse to the stables, then,” he says.

In fact, he thinks that he’s getting a bit jealous, because his favorite horse now looks like it’s in love with Loris and doesn’t give a damn about Emre anymore. Loris doesn’t even need to ask where the stables are, because the horse seems to be happy to lead him there. Mo looks at Emre and raises his brows. “Well, that was impressive.”

“What exactly?” Emre growls.

“Not like I had much time to look, but when did you last see someone handle a horse like this?” Mo asks. “It almost looked like sorcery to me.”

“But we’re too old to believe in sorcery, aren’t we?”

Mo just smiles. “Anyway, we’ll have the money tomorrow,” he says. “I had to threaten them a little bit, but finally they told me to come tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” Emre says. “I will pay you back as soon as I can.”

“Well, am I still not paying you back for saving my life… now twice?” Mo asks.

“More likely I could have killed you today,” Emre sighs. “I should have spotted - and killed - the snake sooner.”

“Oh, come on,” Mo laughs. “I don’t think out of everything that could be in your garden, you expected a snake.”

Emre shakes his head and then looks at Loris, who is walking suspiciously slowly, apparently watching the ground and looking for other snakes.

“Let’s go inside,” Emre says, involuntarily taking one look over the garden as well before starting towards the door.

Mo gratefully settles on the pillows, pouring himself tea and nibbling on an apricot. Emre follows him and then looks at Loris. “Sit,” he says.

Loris hesitates for a split second before obeying the command that was actually a well-meant invitation. Emre can tell that he’s not used to sitting on the floor. It seems like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his legs.

When Emre pushes a glass of tea to him, Loris doesn’t touch it and doesn’t look like he ever will. Apparently he’s mistrustful of everything that isn’t water.

“I want to know where you learned to charm horses like this,” Emre says.

Loris looks like he’s incredibly angry, but not as much with Emre as he is with himself. He also probably considers his answer for a while. “In the cavalry,” he says then.

Emre just raises his brows. Mo doesn’t say anything, sipping on his tea and then reaching for the _nargile_ , which means that he’s thinking about something.

“How… how dangerous was that snake?” Loris asks.

Emre shrugs. “It was the mountain viper. It’s venomous.”

Loris looks like he’s trying hard not to faint. Ordering him to sit down was apparently a good idea.

At the opposite side of the table, Mo frowns and takes another drag from the _nargile_.

“What are you thinking about?” Emre asks.

“ _Mountain_ viper, you said?” Mo says. “Do mountain vipers live in cities?”

“No.”  
  
“Then what was it doing here?”

Emre puts his tea down. “Are you telling me that someone threw a mountain viper in my garden?” he asks incredulously.

His concern, however, is very mild compared to Loris’, who asks the question a bit differently: “Are you saying someone is going to throw snakes at us now?”

“Well, I could be wrong, of course. In any case, as an assassination attempt, it wouldn’t be very reliable… because you can’t quite ensure the snake bites the right person, or that it even bites someone,” Mo smiles. “But as a warning or revenge, it kind of speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

Emre covers his face with his hands. “Ziya Kartal.”

“And you know what’s also strange?” Mo looks at Loris. “I’ve done quite a bit of farming in my life, actually. I own a cotton plantation. And I’ve never seen a peasant being scared of snakes as you are. Because they see them pretty much every day.”

Emre almost chokes on the tea he’s just picked up again. Loris lowers his eyes, but stays silent. Mo gets up calmly, like he isn’t aware of what he’s just done.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I have to change into something less dirty in a particular, not very flattering, place.”

The hall is uncomfortably quiet after he leaves.

“Mo was right,” Emre says then. “And even if he didn’t point that out… If you were in the cavalry, you certainly weren’t a poor peasant.”

Loris just shrugs. “So I lied. Beat me for it.”

“Why?” Emre asks, ignoring the second part of his answer.

“Why? You live in a city, so a peasant is exactly the slave you wouldn’t need,” Loris barks at him. “And that’s just one of the many reasons.”

Emre folds his arms. “Fine, what are the others?”

“You lied too.”

“I never lied to you.”

Loris laughs. “Of course. You live in a palace with servants, and don’t have one thousand coins. And expect me to believe that,” he spits. “Where I come from, beggars don’t live in houses like this.”

Emre gets to his feet briskly, and notices how Loris flinches, tilting his head so that at least a part of his face is hidden by his arm. It makes him sick and angry, but he still fights with his own hurt feelings for a while, circling the hall. “Fine. Do you care for an explanation, which I definitely don’t owe you, or does believing I’m a liar make you feel better?”

Loris peeks at him from the crook of his elbow which he has apparently deemed the safest shelter there is. Emre takes it as an expression of interest.

“Confiscation,” he says. “A law we have here. All property gained during governmental service belongs to public. After my father’s death, this mansion was the only thing I inherited, because it was the only thing he didn’t gain during his governmental service. He inherited it from his father. But all the rest, it belonged to the sultan. So I have this mansion, and as a former soldier, I have my annuity. That’s it. I’m a beggar living in a palace.”

Loris hugs his knees. “I didn’t know that,” he says, somewhat sheepishly.

“Now you do.”

Finally, Emre feels calm enough to sit back down. “Is there another reason why you lied to me?” he asks.

“If you’re an unimportant peasant, they leave you alone,” Loris mumbles. “But someone who used to be somebody, someone used to being respected… oh, they love humiliating people like this.”

“Who told you that? The slave who slept next to her master’s bed?”

“Nobody had to tell me that. I felt that for myself,” Loris says and when he looks at Emre, there are tears glistening in his eyes.

“Who are you?” Emre whispers.

Loris smiles, and in the same moment, the tears finally fall, and it’s the most mesmerizing thing Emre has ever seen. “I don’t remember,” he says.

Emre frowns. “You don’t remember?”

“Maybe I was rich. Maybe I owned land. Maybe I had a rank in the army and they used to call me sir. Maybe I was free. What does it matter now, Emre Can?” Loris whispers. “What is it worth now? A thousand coins. Better to forget it.”

Emre just keeps looking at him. There is an immense truth in his words, and he knows that a master like Ziya Kartal would take every advantage it would give him. But even though he doesn’t want to take any advantage of him, there is still the deep abyss created between them, as wide as they are not equal, and as deep as they could have been.

“I thought I was helping you,” Emre says slowly. “But the more I think about it, the less I know how to help you.”

“Maybe the fault isn’t with you, Emre Can,” Loris shrugs. “I can believe you have a good heart. I can believe you will not beat me or starve me. But does it make me less of a slave?”

“No. Nor does it make me less of your master,” Emre sighs and looks at him. “But I don’t want to abuse the power it gives me. I just need some time to figure out what to do with it.”

“I thought you wanted to return me to my previous owner.”

“On the contrary. I’m going to pay him tomorrow. My friend will borrow me the money.”

Loris smiles, and there is relief in his smile as well as some badly hidden bitterness. “You have better friends than I used to have,” he says.

Emre gets up, smoothing the fabric of his kaftan, and walks towards the door.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Loris says quietly.

Emre turns around, nods and smiles, pointing at the untouched glass of tea. “The tea isn’t poisoned, nor is the food. Just in case you were wondering.”

 

*

 

The following day, the seller comes to collect the money himself. And not alone. Trotting behind him is the city auditor, and a very furious Ziya Kartal.

“What are you doing here?” Emre asks him, folding his arms.

“I thought I should alert the authorities, because there is apparently a fraud going on,” Ziya smiles. “So the esteemed Mazhar Aslan here will oversee the transaction… which will not take place, I suppose… and I am here because I am ready to pay the price and collect the goods right away… the goods I was _unlawfully_ denied.”

Emre almost laughs, because he can imagine how disappointed Ziya will be. And also it feels strangely satisfying, speaking to him from a position of power, even if it’s just once in his life.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with your _goods_ , Ziya Kartal,” he says with a smile. “They are a handful.”

“Do you have the due bill?” the auditor turns to the seller.

“Here. One thousand coins,” the seller says.

“And you have the money?” the auditor asks Emre.

Emre looks at Mo. Mo pushes the trunk towards Emre.

“Your money,” Emre says, pushing it over to the seller.

The seller counts the coins under the careful observation of the auditor, then he nods and closes the trunk.

“Well, the deal is done, then,” the auditor says contentedly, ripping the due bill in half.

Ziya Kartal apparently can’t believe his eyes and ears. “You will let this pass?” he barks at him.

“Well, he did pay,” the auditor shrugs. “It doesn’t matter whose money he used.”

“He doesn’t even know how to treat and train his slaves!” Ziya exclaims.

“With all due respect, Ziya Kartal, I do not think so,” Mazhar Aslan says with a smile.

Emre just frowns, because he has no idea what he means. Then he turns around and gasps.

Loris is kneeling in the corner of the room, eyes downcast, the epitome of a well-trained, obedient slave. His hands are behind his back, hiding the white bandages covering his wrists.

Ziya Kartal takes a deep breath. Then he crosses the hall slowly, stopping a foot away from Loris. Emre holds his breath, but Loris doesn’t move, looking somewhere between his own knees and Ziya’s shoes.

“You’d be such a beautiful kitty,” Ziya says. “What a shame.”

Only when he turns on his heels and walks out, Emre realizes that his hand was on the hilt of his _yataghan_ all the time.

He takes a few steps closer to Loris, and as a result of a sudden brainwave, he takes him by the chin. Loris raises his eyes to him slowly, and for a second, Emre almost buys into it.

Then he realizes that Loris is smiling. _Grinning_ , actually.

“What is this supposed to mean?” Emre asks, folding his arms.

“I thought I should help you keep your reputation,” Loris shrugs. “And spite Ziya Kartal.”

“The second part you achieved brilliantly,” Emre says.

“True,” Loris says. “To achieve the first, there were too little people to witness it.”

“So to keep my reputation, I should parade you through the city from time to time?” Emre chuckles.

“Will you get me a nice collar for that?”

“I might,” Emre says with a smirk. “Will you bite my hand off when I try to put it on you?”

“I might,” Loris smiles.

“In that case, you can keep the game up for a little longer, I suppose?” Emre asks.

Loris sits on his heels and gives him a confused look.

“I will give you your freedom,” Emre says. He thought about it all night, twisted the idea, and the more he thought about it, the more he understood that there was no other way. Nothing else he could do if he wanted to be able to live with himself for the rest of his life. “When I pay my friend back. Because right now, I don’t feel like I have the right to do it, as it was him who paid for you. But once I pay him all the money, I will do it. I promise.”

Loris doesn’t move, he just keeps looking at him, and Emre doesn’t know if he should have said it at all.

“You don’t believe me?” he asks when Loris still doesn’t say anything.

“I do,” Loris says simply.

In that moment, Emre feels incredibly stupid. He doesn’t know what he expected. Loris definitely isn’t that kind of person that would kiss his hands for a promise.

“I just don’t know if it means salvation for me,” Loris says then.

Emre smiles, because for once, he knows what to answer. “Only time will tell.”

“Well, we will have plenty of time, I think,” Loris says with a smirk. “A thousand coins is a lot for a beggar living in a mansion.”

Emre laughs, offers him his hand and Loris takes it, letting Emre help him to his feet.

Only time will tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Nargile is just another word for hookah, shisha or what have you. Wikipedia told me they call it that in Turkey, so I went with it.
> 
> Yataghan is a short sword or sabre that the military men or even civilians would commonly wear as a status symbol.


End file.
